Kebumen, Indonesia – 8:00 PM
It was a warm night in Kebumen. The streets buzzed with life—vendors calling out their menus, the smell of grilled food wafting through the air, and soft laughter echoing from small groups gathered around street stalls.
Mikael walked slowly, taking it all in. He hadn't been back here in a while. Born to an American father and a Javanese mother, he had grown up in Indonesia but spent most of his adult life bouncing between cities for freelance design work. Tonight, though, was his little escape. No clients, no deadlines. Just him, the streets of his childhood, and some much-needed peace of mind.
He munched on some bakso bakar, sipping a cold cup of dawet hitam—sweet, refreshing, and nostalgic. It tasted like the holidays he used to spend here as a kid. With his stomach full and his heart a little lighter, Mikael checked the time. Ten o'clock already. He let out a soft sigh. Time to head back.
His grandparents' old house in Gombong wasn't too far, maybe a thirty-minute ride. He hopped on his motorbike and started down the familiar road, the city lights slowly fading behind him. The deeper he went, the quieter it got. Streetlights grew sparse, and darkness began to settle in.
Halfway through the ride, something felt off.
In the side mirror, he noticed three motorcycles riding behind him. At first, he thought nothing of it. It's a free road—people ride at night. But as the minutes passed, they stayed close. Too close.
He frowned, adjusting his grip on the handlebars.
Just chill, it's probably nothing.
Still, he decided to take a turn down a small side road he knew well—one that cut through some quiet fields. A shortcut. Maybe they'd keep going straight.
But they didn't.
They followed.
His heart picked up pace. He sped up. So did they.
Shit.
Without warning, one of the bikes shot ahead and swerved into his path, forcing him to brake hard. The other two pulled up beside him, boxing him in.
Three men jumped off their bikes.
"Off the bike! Now!" one of them barked, wielding a machete that glinted under the moonlight.
Mikael's body froze. His mind screamed to move, but his limbs hesitated. Slowly, hands raised, he stepped off the motorbike.
Then—slash.
A white-hot pain tore through his shoulder as one of them swung the blade into him. He cried out, stumbling backward. Blood poured from the wound, hot and fast.
Fueled by instinct, Mikael turned and ran. He didn't look back.
The road was dark, the fields silent. No houses. No passing cars. Just open night and the sound of his own frantic breath.
He didn't know how far he got before he dropped to his knees, chest heaving, shoulder burning. The robbers had taken the bike and vanished into the night.
His phone. He reached into his pocket with shaking hands. The screen lit up—cracked, smeared with blood—and then went black.
Battery dead.
Figures.
Mikael collapsed against a tree by the roadside. His vision swam. The world spun around him.
The pain was sharp, but it wasn't the worst part. The worst was the silence. The isolation. The slow, creeping cold that began to seep into his limbs.
"I'm sorry, Mom... Dad..." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to give you a better life... I wanted to do more..."
His thoughts became muddled, drifting between memories and regrets. His mother's warm smile. His father's gruff laugh. Simple dinners at home. The promises he'd made to himself. To them.
All slipping away.
His vision dimmed. The stars overhead blurred. Sounds faded. Even the pain began to dull, like his body was slowly disconnecting.
And then—
Nothing.
Just black.